#loosely inspired by that post earlier today that said something about tapping a dick and saying

[strangersatellites]

pride, envy, wrath, sloth, greed, lust, ao3

Seven Deadly Sins Series (NSFW 18+)

gluttony (noun) - a sin opposed to the virtue of temperance because it is the immoderate indulgence in the delights of food or drink. Gluttony can involve more than merely eating too much. Drunkenness is also a type of gluttony because it is excessive indulgence in intoxicating drink.

Steve’s drunk.

Hammered really.

His vision is swimming and his head feels heavy as lead and like it weighs nothing all at the same time. 

He’s walking, walking, walking. Going… somewhere.

Where?

He stumbles on a crack in the sidewalk and the only thing that keeps him from hitting the ground is the grip he has around Eddie’s arm.

Eddie!

“Hey, Eddddssss,” He giggles, and Eddie joins him, his snickers carrying out into the quiet night. “Eddie. Eddie, where're we goin’?” He thinks the words make sense but his tongue feels funny and he can’t really be sure if he made any sound.

Eddie’s laser-focused on his feet, working hard at putting one in front of the other. He comes to an abrupt stop and wobbles, unsteady. 

“Home. Is home this way?” He’s looking around fast and Steve thinks he looks like a squirrel. Giggles at the thought.

He tugs at Eddie’s arm. “Yeah. Home is this way.”

It’s a Saturday night and they’ve spent it out at a club with Robin and Nancy. What had started off as casual drinks and dancing quickly devolved, and the next thing Steve knew, he was doing tequila shots and making out with his boyfriend on the dance floor. 

Steve has trouble keeping his hands to himself on a good day. But especially when Eddie’s in leather and chains and his hands are on Steve’s hips and his rings are cold on his skin and his tongue tastes like liquor. 

He’d drug Eddie out by the hand, told Robin they were leaving. Lost count of their drinks somewhere between his fifth rum and coke and his third shot.

Now, plastered against Eddie’s back while he digs around through his pockets for their apartment keys he’s become very aware of just how drunk he is.

He presses his forehead into Eddie’s shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut tight and whines,

“Ed. I feel spinny.” 

The door swings open with a bang and Eddie laughs out an “Oh shit.”

“Eddieeeeeee.”

Steve’s wrapped up in strong arms and he tucks his face into Eddie’s neck. “I heard you sweetheart.” He lifts Steve’s head up with hands on both sides of his face and Steve gets a good look at him and his giggles are set off again.

Eddie’s eyebrows furrow but Steve’s laugh is contagious, his own bubbling up in response. “What are you laughing at, giggles?”

And that just makes it worse. Steve barely able to get out any words between. 

He reaches up and pokes at Eddie’s cheek and his eyes go big and wide. 

“There’s two of you.” He leans up and smacks two kisses on Eddie’s lips, tries to anyway. Gets the corner on his second attempt. “Two kisses for two Eddies.”

Both Eddies smile big and bright and he drags Steve back in for a kiss that goes dirty in a second. Teeth and tongues and the leftover taste of rum. His hands grab at Steve’s waist and squeeze, tight, tight, tight and the boy whimpers against his lips in response. 

He pulls away from Eddie and looks so shocked. “Babe,” he hiccups and laughs again. “Babe, I’m so drunk.”

Eddie’s the one that can’t pull it together this time. His “Me too, baby,” barely audible over the sound of his joy. A thought occurs to him and he stands bolt upright and his laughter comes to an abrupt stop when he gasps. “Stevie. Do you wanna have drunk sex?”

Steve’s jaw drops and he’s nodding. Words slurred together when he shoves towards their room, “Yeah, f’r sure. You’re s’smart.”

When his back hits their bed he has to squeeze his eyes shut again, still spinning if he moves too quickly. Eddie is fumbling with his belt buckle and Steve’s reaching down to help when he thinks of it.

“Ed, babe. Eddie. Eddie, what if my dick won’t work.”  

His boyfriend is dropping his head against his stomach and his shoulders shake with his laugh. His hand flattens to pet at Steve’s hips through his jeans that he really, really wants off. 

Eddie hiccups before he crawls up to kiss at Steve’s jaw, wet and sloppy and sticky with alcohol. “Think you’re gonna get whiskey dick, baby?”

Steve grinds his hips up against Eddie’s above him and gets a grunt in response, feels his own body react to the pressure and the lips behind his ear. “No, but like. Maybe. That would be so sad.” He closes his eyes while Eddie sucks a mark into his neck. “So sad.”

He doesn’t know when Eddie’s hand slid back down to his belt but he’s got it undone and his jeans unbuttoned between one blink and the next. His hand sliding down under Steve’s boxers and wrapping around his dick with a squeeze.

Eddie lifts up from his neck and raises his eyebrows. “Feels fine to me. Feels really good.”

If he wasn’t fighting to keep himself from coming in his pants like a teenager he might’ve laughed. He kicks a knee up and shoves Eddie off. “Why are you still wearing clothes, what the fuck?” And the way Eddie’s face screws up it looks like he doesn’t know either. 

Jeans and shirts and jackets and boxers find a home in a pile on the floor and someone will inevitably be looking for their phone later. 

But Eddie’s got his hand wrapped around them both and he’s spitting, sticky and wet over their dicks and Steve can’t be bothered with a thought of anything else. His hands scratch deep welts down Eddie’s back and he hisses at the pain. But the way his cock leaks over Steve’s stomach says it's a good hiss. On one particularly rough upstroke Steve’s orgasm takes him by surprise with a deep groan and his head thrown back. The alcohol flowing through his veins paired with his boyfriend’s guitar pick dangling in his face enough to send him racing to release.

The room is quiet save for harsh breaths and the slick sound of Eddie’s hand on his own skin. But Steve has an idea. He shoves at Eddie’s shoulders until he takes the hint and flops down on his back. Steve shimmies down the bed until he’s laid out between Eddie’s legs. 

He wraps a hand around the base of Eddie’s dick and points it towards his lips and Eddie’s thighs flex, bracing himself for the feeling of being enveloped in Steve’s pretty, pretty mouth. 

“I get up in the evening, and I ain’t got nothing to say.” 

Eddie’s head pops up and looks down. Finds Steve, smiling bright and giggling using his dick like it’s a microphone. 

“I come home in the morning,” He’s got his eyes shut and his eyebrows furrowed and he’s really into it. “I go to bed feeling the same way!”

Eddie brings his hands up to cover his face but he’s laughing so hard no sound comes out. Steve keeps humming when he finally licks at the head and Eddie’s done for. Coming across his tongue the second his lips wrap around the head. He’s trying to catch his breath when he hears Steve’s voice again.

“Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week.”

He drags him back up his body to settle against his chest, still shaking with laughter, with joy. Plants a smacking wet kiss to Steve’s lips and presses their foreheads together. “God, I fucking love you, baby.”

Steve’s smile is blinding-bright and he presses one more chaste kiss against his lips. “I love you more, babe.” His smile goes mischievous and his head tilts to the side, the picture of innocence. “Can’t wait to tell your friends you came to Bruce Springsteen.” 

Eddie holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I blame whiskey dick.”

It's hours before their giggles settle enough to fall asleep.

[renaerys]

PPG One-Shot: Spelling Bee (Brick/Blossom)

Happy birthday to @genovah​! She is always inspiring me to come up with more PPG content, a true hero. I’m back with another entry in the ongoing Shooketh, Not Stirred high school AU Reds series for your entertainment. As always, this can be read alone, but it happens in the same universe as part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, and part 5. This is also posted on my AO3.

Summary: Brick and Blossom hunker down in the library to study for the upcoming regional spelling bee.

***Reblogs are extremely appreciated, since this probably won’t show up in the tags due to cursing. Thank you! <3

xxx

In fairness, Brick had come to the library during his free period with the pure intention to learn. And he was certainly learning something. But somewhere between sliding into his seat opposite Blossom and watching her lips move around insouciant as if it were a strawberry slathered in ganache, his purity was torn from his weak, teenage boy fingers and there was absolutely no going back. 

“Brick, are you listening to me?” She touched his hand across the table. 

“Yup.”

“Did you need me to repeat the word?”

“Yup.”

“In-SOO-see-uhnt.” She sounded it out slowly, and hand to god, that dominating SOO went straight to his cock.

This, of course, was fine. 

“Origin?” he asked. 

She twirled her hair around her finger and puckered her lips. “French.”

Fuck.

“I…”

Blossom mistook his increasingly horny stupor for plain old stupor and sighed. “Are you even trying? Because if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were completely fine with Darla Dimpleton going to regionals instead of one of us.”

“I am not fine with that.”

Darla Dimpleton was an unassuming, unthreatening nobody with the personality of plain oatmeal. Brick would never have even bothered to learn her name had she not committed the cardinal sin of scoring so much extra credit while everyone else was busy having lives that she stole the number one GPA right from under him. Which meant she stole it from under Blossom too. Which meant Brick was no longer a respectable silver medal to Blossom’s gold, but currently ranked third and therefor merely happy to be on the podium at all (and for the record, no one has ever been happy merely to be on the podium, just like no one has ever been happy winning Most Improved: you sucked, and now you suck a little less. Except this time, you actually suck more because Darla fucking Dimpleton decided to Quaker Oats her way to the top of this rat race that doesn’t actually matter, but it’s the principle of the thing, i.e., the only thing that matters.). 

All of this to say, Darla Dimpleton was the Worst™ and she was one hundred percent going down. 

“Are you sure? Because you’re being awfully cavalier about this. Some might even call you insouciant.”

It was a testament to Brick’s powerful fondness for winning and being seen doing it that he spelled insouciant in one Darla Dimpleton-shaped cock blocking breath.

Blossom smiled like she knew something. “Much better.”  

Yeah, she knows a lot of things.

The problem with dating, Brick was convinced, was that suddenly the mundane became extraordinary. Everyday experiences that he had previously taken for granted—flying around Townsville, enjoying a cup of coffee, thwarting his sometimes murderous demonic overlord from distributing incriminating polaroids, that sort of thing—were suddenly exciting, thrilling even. Because now he got to do those things with Blossom, and Blossom was cool in a smarmy, elitist sort of way that both softened his heart and hardened his dick all at the same time, and that was kind of A Lot to deal with at 9 a.m. on a Tuesday.

“All right, do me,” Blossom said, and Brick coughed so badly his aforementioned weak, teenage boy fingers shook to stifle himself. 

Mercy, he thought, probably. But all his blood was rushing south and it was going to take a supernatural willpower to get through these words so that one of them could beat the upstart porridge peasant to this year’s regional spelling bee. 

“You’re the boss,” he said, because it was true, and also because he liked the way she looked at him when he said it. Like he was now the ganache-coated strawberry in this overextended metaphor that he was too laden with Homeric concupiscence being in her general proximity to unpack. 

Concupiscence, there’s a ten dollar word for you, you horny genius. 

He made a mental note to brag to Blossom about this later. 

“Okay, let’s see…” Brick made a show of organizing the flashcards so that she wouldn’t see him discreetly re-situate his pants under the table. “Your word is cymotrichous.”

Blossom tapped her lips, and Brick found himself sympathizing with the Puritans in their absolute befuddlement over the libidinous effect of women having lips. Witchcraft, surely. “Could you use it in a sentence for me?”

Compelled entirely by black magic and therefor not responsible for his imminently questionable choices, Brick obliged her with: “Thinking about how I’d rather run my fingers through your cymotrichous hair for the rest of free period instead of sit here spelling words no one’s ever heard of.”

Blossom, who he was dead certain was extremely thirsty for him and had been for years long before they ever reconciled their rivalry, leaned over the desk separating them. Her hair, long and loose and indeed quite wavy today, was tempting. “Brick, are you flirting with me?”

It was a well-known fact of being a Weak-Fingered, Teenage Boy that one must never reveal such weakness, especially not in front of one’s girlfriend. On the other hand, co-opting said weakness and rebranding it as the suave truth was galaxy brain levels of flirting. And Brick, as has already been established, was a horny genius. “Yup.” He leaned in to meet her, and he twirled her hair between his fingers because they were weak for her, indeed. “How am I doing?”

Blossom, too determined to let her thirst deter her from her goal of sweet, academic retribution and bragging rights, tapped a finger to his lips. “Great. But we have so many words to spell, and only thirty minutes left to do them all. So get shuffling, stud.”

Well, he could work with that. One thing that made his relationship with Blossom work very well was their insatiable competitiveness. Whether they were whaling on each other over an empty parking lot, debating the efficacy of post-its as a note-taking device, or combining their powers to Captain Planet a cornmeal know-it-all back down the leaderboard where she belonged, they were relentless glory chasers. And the greater the challenge, the more they enjoyed the experience and each other. 

Blossom spelled her word perfectly, by the way. She stretched out the o-u-s at the end in a bewitching little whisper as she pulled away and her hair slipped through his fingers. That moment when the light changes and the temperature shifts and you’re weightless in a state of existential anticipation of something monumental about to happen, but not quite? That happened. Thirty minutes to explore the shape of that anticipation was enough time to taste it but not enough to savor it. Which, Brick supposed, was about to make this the best thirty minutes he was likely going to get all week. 

“Are you ready?” Blossom watched him from behind the card she’d drawn. She had a glint in her eyes that told him she was smiling behind that card. 

“Anytime.”

“Your word is eudaemonic.”

That fucking gorgeous ooh again.

“Define it.”

Blossom flushed as though he had just ordered her to bend over. She bit her lip (it must have been a ten Hail Mary’s kind of day when the Witch-Finder General caught a flesh and blood woman doing that with her improbably sorcerous lips) and grinned. “It means producing happiness. Based on the idea of happiness as the proper end of conduct.”

Producing happiness, which is proper, much like how Blossom came off as proper and even prim around adults, when really she was the most fun, most confident, most person he’d ever met, especially when she was spelling in that chiffon top (son of a bitch, that was a great top on her), and the only conduct he was interested in was of the happiest kind.

“Oh.” His throat clenched, and then his stomach twisted, and then his pants grew little too tight again in a full-body chain reaction that began and ended with a fierce determination not to give in first even though it would mean release because release would be meaningless without this etymological tête-à-tête. 

Don’t think about tête-à-têtes. 

Seventeenth century, noun, borrowed from the French meaning literally “head to head” (please, please stop hurting yourself like this).

“Brick?”

Brick cleared his throat. “Yup. Got it. E-u-d…”

Crisis averted, Brick picked the next card and promptly choked on his own tongue. Blossom made a show like she was concerned and are you all right? and please drink some water. Brick drank her water, which of course she had had her anatomically heretical lips on earlier, which was just fantastic for him. Tuesday fucking morning. 

Milieu was her word. 

“Milieu, hmm.” Blossom’s smile was spellbinding, which was a pun because he punned when he panicked. “Origin?”

You bitch, he thought, and be cool, and also, witchcraft.

Brick leaned back in his chair, slipped his trembling hands in his pockets, and squeezed every ounce of anything you can do I can do better into a winsome grin. “French.”

Blossom’s adult-facing façade cracked like an egg, and he got a glimpse of the raw delight she felt for this game, for the words, and for him for making it happen. For cultivating the electric milieu, if you will, currently driving them both into a state of impassioned, competitive euphoria at 9:42 a.m. in the library. 

“Right, um…” She stumbled over her words, and Brick had to restrain himself from crowing for joy and risk the rheumy-eyed librarian coming to scold them. 

By the time they got through another set of words, they were each visibly frustrated and doubly turned on by the other’s masochistic resolve not to throw in the towel. 

“Okay, ready for another round?” 

She wasn’t even trying to hide her intentions now, and that was just fine with Brick. “Of course.”

One more.

If it was another French word, he was fucking done. 

“Really?” Blossom truly had ice in her veins for the way she was able to school her face then. He couldn’t read her, and that was very bad. 

If it’s another fucking French word…

He could be over the desk and on her faster than you could say concupiscence. 

“Okay.” Blossom set down the flashcard she’d drawn and folded her hands on the table. She looked him dead in the eye licked her lips. “Succedaneum.”

The bookshelf shook but Brick’s fingers didn’t as they pinned Blossom’s over a Dewey Decimal-stamped spine and he kissed her with all the horny passion of a teenage genius who would make a note to thank the devil for giving women lips. One of his better ideas. 

xxx

“Hey, has anyone seen Blossom? I’ve sent her, like, four texts!” Bubbles shoved her phone, open to the ignored texts in question, in her sister’s face. “She was supposed to help me with Chem homework.”

Buttercup ducked. “No, and watch where you’re swinging that thing.”

“I saw her earlier,” Boomer said. “She was with Brick coming out of first period.”

“Oh, yeah.” Mike slung his arm around Boomer’s shoulders. “Don’t they both have a free period right now?”

Buttercup rolled her eyes. “What a scam. Whoever decided to give the A-students free periods while the rest of us mere mortals gotta slave away is a straight-up Supervillain.”

Boomer snapped his fingers. “Hey, I just remembered! They both decided to compete for the spot at the regional spelling bee this year. I bet that’s what they’re doing.”

“God, that’s the saddest thing I have ever heard in my life. That’s a new low even for Blossom.”

“I heard there’s a cash prize for the regional winner,” Bubbles said. “It’s like twenty thousand bucks! Remember, everyone in school signed up and we had to have that assembly to narrow it down?”

“Twenty thou— How the tits did I miss that?!”

“I mean, it was all over the school,” Mike said. “We signed up too.”

“What? And no one thought to tell me I could’ve won the lottery?”

Boomer chuckled. “Dude, come on. You wouldn’t have stood a chance in hell against Darla Dimpleton.”

“Who?”

Bubbles cast Boomer a not worth it look, and he just sighed. “So, if they’re studying for the spelling bee, do you think they’re in the library?”

At that moment, Butch came bursting down the hall a little too fast to be human. Open lockers rattled on their hinges as he passed, and a Sophomore girl’s binder went flying, scattering looseleaf papers everywhere. Buttercup looked ready to punch him in the dick for breaking the no powers in school rule. “Guys, you’re gonna shit!” 

“Calm down before you blow a load, Jesus Christ.” Buttercup yanked him back down to the floor so he wouldn’t spontaneously float. 

Sensibly, Boomer asked, “Why?”

“‘Cause Brick and Blossom are making out in the library right now!”

Mike cringed. “Oh, come on.”

“The hell they are,” Buttercup said. 

Bubbles smiled. “Good for them.”

“I’m serious! There were books everywhere, and the noise—”

“Oh look, there goes my dignity. Better catch it before it gets away. C’mon, moron.” Buttercup dragged Butch down the hall over his protests. “What were you even doing in the library? I didn’t think you knew where it was…”

“Like that could ever happen,” Mike said. “Those two wouldn’t waste a minute of study time if it means beating out the competition.”

Boomer did not look so convinced. “I don’t know. I mean, they’re officially, for real dating now,”—“Finally!” Mike interjected—“so it’s not that unbelievable.”

The bell for the next period rang. Bubbles groaned thinking of stewing for an hour of Chem. At least she shared that class with Boomer and would not have to suffer alone. They parted from Mike and walked together through the throng of students rushing to get to their next period.

“Hey, do you think…” 

“I mean…” Boomer shrugged. 

They rounded the corner and nearly ran into Blossom dashing to her next class with a rushed “Got your texts talk later bye!” before she disappeared into the crowd. 

Bubbles whirled on Boomer. “Did you see her buttons—”

“Completely uneven—”

The late bell rang and made them jump. Among the last stragglers, they both dashed a bit too fast to get to class and made it to their seats just as Mr. Micelli finished writing a problem on the board. 

Boomer winked when she caught his eye a couple desks away from hers, and it took everything she had not to laugh.

“Good for her,” Bubbles said to herself. 

“You are late,” Mr. Micelli said. 

Everyone turned to watch Brick sink into his seat, his short hair totally askew and looking healthily flushed for a Tuesday morning. 

Boomer burst out laughing and needed a whole minute to calm down. 

He’d tell her later that the detention was worth it.

xxx

Witchcraft! 👁️👄👁️✨